Campy

It's no secret I was kind of a strange child. Those who are close to me have repeatedly been regaled with my howling laments about my youth; being teased for how short I was and how big my nose was, for my funny name and for using big words; I always wore a hat; a baseball cap, a knit watchman's cap, a cowboy hat, or a turquoise-colored floppy suede fringed thing like something Janis Joplin might have worn. I was a tomboy and usually dressed in Hang Ten t-shirts and Toughskins or Billy-The-Kid jeans. I played the cello for God's sake. I loved frogs, baseball, fishing, and loved bulding forts and rafts. I think I had a Huckleberry Finn complex. I went through a brief (but somewhat concerning to my parents) phase where I insisted to everyone who met me that I was a boy.
One of the less glaring things that set me apart from the other kids was that I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about, nor did I engage people in the typical long treatises about, my big plans to be a nurse or a world adventurer or an astronaut or a movie star. For whatever reason, apart from occasional fantasies that I was the fifth Beatle, I just didn't think about 'what I wanted to be'. It's unusual, isn't it? Looking back, I now wonder if this wasn't some subconcious coping mechanism designed to keep my hopes safely muted-a lesson I indeed conciously learned early, growing up in a household where encouragement was in short suppy and unsolicited criticism was offered up as helpful 'training for the real world'. (On the other hand, it's nice to imagine that there actually was a time when I was just too blissfully immersed in the moment-just 'being'-to worry at all about what was to come.) As I grew up, went to high school and entered the work world, it occurred to me at times that perhaps I had a lack of interest in 'goal setting' compared to my peers, but didn't concern myself with it too much. I was also never aware of a particular desire to get married or have kids, nor did I have any concrete aspirations such as saving the world, having an M.B.A. by the time I was 23 or making my first million by 30. I didn't fully realize that my lack of interest or inability to think in terms of my future was atypical or worrying until much later.
Reflecting on this recently I had happy realization. I remembered that as a child there was in fact one thing I did devote significant energy to thinking about and planning for: I wanted to run a camp. I used to spend hours playing on the vacant grassy hillside behind our house pretending I was the warm and generous host of a paradisical rural retreat where kids could come to ride ponies, milk goats, play with puppies, grow carrots, swim in the pond, fly kites, have cookouts, tell stories, catch salamanders and bugs, do crafts and just generally escape the pressure cooker of kindergarten life. The overnight cabins were refrigerator boxes I dragged home and decorated with crayons and cutout windows. I even appointed the "cabins" with pillows and blankets. Gracious living for weary children. It seems I aspired to be the Martha Stewart of sleepaway camp.
Looking around my property these days I view things through a new lens. I realize I have had a goal all along. There are abundant signs I have been preparing for the campers to arrive for some time: I have a charming house with a cozy, well-appointed guest room as well as a fairy-tale rose-covered cottage for guests. I have in fact hosted tent and trailer campers out in the meadow. My yard is made up of different quadrants for different activities: In one area there is fire-pit with benches around it and a little pile of uniformly cut applewood kindling. Neat stacks of firewood await splitting. In this area there is also an assortment of chairs and a picnic table with an overhead string of lights like the ones hanging across ancient narrow cobblestone lanes in Italy. Adjacent is a diminuitive fenced-in vegetable garden that produces asparagus, artichokes, arugula, chard,favas,various herbs,kale, lettuce, mache, peas, beans, squash, strawberies and more, all depending on the season. Flowers, trees and grassy open space abound. There is a volleyball net set up in the east field. In another area there is a fenced-in yard with greenhouse and a garden shed, an outdoor potting bench, a rabbit hutch, and a small scrap lumber pile. In this area there is also a spot for my future chickens. Yet another spot is is a fenced area devoted to the dogs-mine and visitors'. Everywhere there are happily decrepit tennis balls and frisbees. Wildlife such as deer, squirrels,turkeys, foxes, and quail make regular appearances. There is a sparkling pond full of frogs just through the fence and a magnificent estuaruian river for paddling and fishing at the bottom of my hill. Not to mention that the ocean is pretty much right out my door.
Oh, and trust me, there are plenty of salamanders and bugs.
I finally realized that all the years I have spent arranging and improving my place here in the country were the manifestation of my childhood inclination toward creating a safe haven for nurturing tired spirits. I am a good listener and people tell me I am a fair and compassionate dispenser of advice and wisdom. That my friends also frequently cite their visits here as crucial relaxing respites from city life and their daily grinds- treating me like some kind of hero who has saved them- and waxing rhapsodic about time blissfully spent plucking produce from the garden, cooking, eating, drinking wine, playing with animals, padding around in pajamas during the day, lounging in a comfy chair watching movies or reading, or walking in the fresh air... is the culmination of my humble childhood dream.
I see that now. I am starting to get that people count on me to be here when they need some simple downtime and I am fulfilled by knowing this. My job is to run this camp- it matters to many people. I am so pleased to be able to share my simple, beautiful haven for my loved ones to escape to. It turns out I have been working my whole life to be their safe place to fall and it feels great.